until she should meet one of the returning century girls, to have her company back. The scenery was wild and picturesque along the stream, and the shade from the giant trees and wild tangle of vines invited her to descend. Toward the bottom of the ravine, the underbrush was thick and almost impassable.

Turning to take a last look at this wild scene before remounting her wheel, Beth saw something way down by the old bridge that made her hasten forward. Fluttering from a bush was a white object, and lying in the underbrush near by was what appeared to be the handle-bars of a bicycle, half concealed. Dragging her own wheel behind her, Beth hurried forward, a queer feeling as if something terrible had happened making her tremble with excitement. The white object, Beth found to be a lady's handkerchief. She then started to pull the wheel from its place among the briers, but suddenly dropped it and stood still in terror; for just beyond the bicycle and almost hidden from view, lay the motionless figure of a woman. The dress was caught and torn by the briers, the face scratched and bleeding. But what struck Beth with horror was that she recognized the figure as that of Marion Holmes. Beth pushed her way through the thick bushes to the prostrate figure and shook it, calling, in a frightened voice: "Marion! Marion!"

The girl's body was not cold, and Beth thought that the heart was faintly, beating. Encouraged by this, she managed to clear a small spot among the brambles, and to lay the prostrate girl in a more comfortable position. She then made her way to the stream, and saturating her handkerchief with water, hurried back and bathed the injured face, wiping away the blood and hunting for the most serious wound. As she gently wiped the cold face, she felt a quiver run through the frame, and the eyes opened for an instant and then closed

again. But the heart seemed to beat a little stronger, and after a few moments the eyes opened again, and a sign of recognition passed over the girl's face. With a sigh of relief, Beth began to think of assistance; and after making Marion as comfortable as possible, she quickly pushed through the bushes to the road, mounted her wheel and flew on toward Halseyville.

Fortunately, she soon came in sight of a farm-house, and as she rode up, the farmer, who happened to be near, stood in open-mouthed wonder at her frantic haste. Beth lost no time in explaining the case to him, and at once he set out with a boy for the gully, carrying with them an impromptu litter on which to bear the injured girl. Beth remained behind to help the farmer's wife make things ready for the reception of her friend. Then she started for Halseyville and a doctor.

It was half-past three when she mounted her wheel, and before her was a ride of twenty-three miles. The road was straight and in fairly good condition; there were a few hills, but they were comparatively

Bruce's opinion of Beth's "wind" was well-founded, for she spun over the ground, covering mile after mile, without seeming to notice the exertion.

In spite of her great efforts, it was after half-past five o'clock when Beth jumped from her wheel and stumbled up the walk to the doctor's house. She found him sitting on the piazza enjoying his evening cigar. To her excited account, he exclaimed:

"What! Did you say you've come all the way from Hampton since nine o'clock, and stopped on the way to nurse a sick girl?"

Beth nodded.

"Well, you just sit down here, and don't you stir out of this house tonight. Mary," he called to his wife, "this young lady will stay here tonight and keep you company. I am going to see a patient on the Hampton road, about twenty-five miles out, and won't be back till late. The roads are good, so I'll ride my wheel." Beth started up. "I thank you very much," she said, "but I must get home to-night. Mother doesn't know where I am, and the last train has gone, too, so there is no way to send her word."

"My dear young lady," exclaimed. the doctor, "do you realize that you are fifty miles from Hampton, and that it will be very late to-night before you can reach home? Besides, for half the distance you would have to ride alone."

Yes, Beth knew all that, but as she persisted, the doctor could only make her eat some supper and take a stimulant before starting on the return trip. He was a jolly, good-natured man, and for all her weariness, Beth found herself listening with interest to his droll stories and pleasant conversation, so that the time did not seem long bfore the little farm-house loomed up in the distance.

They found that the sufferer had regained consciousness under the kindly care of the farmer's wife, though she was so weak that it was uncertain at times whether she breathed or not. When Beth saw that she was not needed, she quietly slipped out to her wheel. It was half-past nine when she began the lonely twenty-five-mile ride.

Beth was a fearless girl, and knew the way thoroughly, but she could not throw off the feeling of dread that passed over her as she approached the rickety bridge and came to the spot where Marion had been thrown. When safely past the dangerous spot, she breathed easier, and begun the fatiguing work of climbing the rough incline on the Hampton side

of the ravine. Just as the brow of the hill was reached, she saw, outlined against the sky, the figure of a wheelman, and a moment later a familiar voice called out:

"Hello, there! Is that you, Beth?" and Guy Bruce leaped from his wheel and grasped her hand. "Why, Beth, you've given us a terrible. fright. fright. What on earth are you doing way out here at this time of night? But don't stop to explain now; we'll have plenty of time for that on the ride home. You haven't been to Halseyville, have you?"

They were soon riding along the level road, with the moon to light them on their way; and it would have been an ideal journey if Beth had not been so nearly worn out. She was so exhausted, now that the excitement was over, that will power alone kept her moving, and the thought of her mother's anxiety sustained her. As they sped along, she told Guy the story of the exciting afternoon. When he learned the reason of her long journey, the carefully-prepared lecture he had in store for her was forgotten, and instead, he exclaimed: "You're a brick. Not another girl in the club would have done it, after the way she left you this morning."

"No, Guy; I only did what any other person would have done under the same circumstances. I could not let her lie there while the farmer boy went for the doctor; I wouldn't take the chances. Marion must have been the first rider that the girl saw pass this morning, though I don't see how the others missed seeing her when they went by. Had any of them returned when you left?"

"Yes, all but two or three," said Guy, with a chuckle. "They came in together-on the train. The rest stayed in Halseyville, too tired to ride to the station. Beth, the prize is yours! You're the only one that has made the full hundred miles, and if there was ever a century made in a better cause, it has yet to be recorded."

M

OST of the Virginia and North Carolina coast line, beginning only a few miles below Virginia Beach, and extending over a hundred miles to Hat

teras, are taken up by five great sounds: Currituck, Albermarle, Chowan, Croaton and Pamlico. All of these bodies of water were undoubtedly at one time a part of the ocean, but a sandbar extending from north to south as straight as if laid out by a surveyor's compass, interposed and stopped the billows. Five great ponds of shallow water were left, all of them fed through narrow inlets by the sea, except Currituck. The frequent rains make this piece of water almost fresh, though at times the incoming tide leaves the water slightly brackish. It varies in depth from two to four feet, and the bottom is as thickly covered with wild celery as a well-kept lawn with grass. The peculiar condition of the water is what makes this favorite food of the waterfowl so abundant, and its being so plentiful, has made the sound what it is to the sportsman.

Currituck Sound is interspersed with many islands and marshes, varying from a few square feet to hundreds of acres; and there is not a foot of this ground in the whole territory that is not owned, registered by title deeds, recorded in the archives, and watched over as if it sheltered a gold mine. All the best points have been bought by syndicates, and the members of them have formed clubs. As a consequence, a small area on the North Carolina coast contains the largest collection of clubhouses found

anywhere in the world, in so small a space. A strip about forty miles long by three to ten miles wide, is literally sown with them, varying from the spacious mansion to the shanty of the market gunner.

In the early autumn, vast flocks of ducks and geese, starting from their breeding grounds in Labrador and flying southward, follow the trend of the Atlantic Ocean and stop wherever they find food. The higher-grade varieties, such as the canvas-back, red-head, spoon-bill and shoveler, are inordinately fond of wild celery, and vast numbers wend their way to this favorite haunt at Currituck, which has been famous for over two centuries in consequence, for its wildfowl shooting. And this is the only attraction the place has, for if there is a spot on earth otherwise more dreary and uninviting than this region, I have never heard of it.

The strip of sand that separates the Atlantic Ocean from Currituck Sound is the very embodiment of desolation. In the winter the storms careen over it at will, and the low marshes and sea meadows are alternately flooded with water and swept by shifting sands, and in the summer the sand-flies and mosquitoes make life a burden; yet there is a hardy race which inhabits these shores, and its members have lived here for two centuries. The men are as tough as pine knots, have sallow skins that are as thick as parchment, and loose, raw-boned figures. They earn their living entirely by fishing, hunting, and acting as guides; at home they are as lazy as Indians.

To belong to a crack club on Currituck Sound is almost as expensive as keeping a yacht; for the keepers and attendants are regularly employed all the year round, and the extras amount to a large sum. Take

THE PAMUNKEY CLUBHOUSE.

the Pamunkey Club, on Pumunkey Island, for instance, the shares of which originally cost $25,000 each, and are now held by four men, one of them living in Boston and the others in New York. They keep up their Currituck establishment, though none of them has paid the club a visit for the last three years; for they are likely to come down any shooting season, and everything must be in perfect order for their arrival.

The clubhouse is like an old country inn, and is half hidden by branches and thick-growing foliage. There is no wild celery immediately around the island, and few canvasback are shot, but it is a fine place for black duck and some of the other varieties.

This little island, resting directly in the centre of the Sound, is the most beautiful spot I ever saw. It is thickly wooded, and also has a profusion of vines, creepers and clinging arbutus. In olden times, it was the dwelling place of the chief of the

Pamunkey Indians. Here lived in happiness the copper-colored chieftain with his court, and if the rugged old cedar and fir trees abounding on the isle could speak, what interesting stories they might tell of a barbaric age! This was certainly a favored spot, and the Pamunkey Indians never suffered, like their brethren in the West, from hunger and hardships; for here were wildfowl in incredible profusion, with deer galore on the mainland, and fish, oysters and clams for the taking. This, in truth, was the Indians' happy hunting grounds!

The Swan Island Club is like the Pamunkey in that there is no wild celery near, but it is probably the best preserve for common

duck on the Sound. It has three thousand acres of shoals, flats and points, besides extensive sea meadows, affording excellent goose shooting in spring, while in the summer the meadows are alive with bay birds; but none of the members was ever known to visit the club during spring or summer. This club is an old one and antedates the war; its membership consists of eighteen men, all of Boston. The initiation fee is $5,000, and no stock has ever been offered for sale. It has a spacious, handsome frame house with outbuildings for the keeper and assistants.

The youngest of the club family is that on Ragged Island, and in some respects it possesses advantages over all the rest. For those who prefer quality to quantity, this is the place of all others; for, coming after the wild celery, which is so abundant that it is difficult in some places to force a boat through it, the red-head and the royal canvas-back are the chief wildfowl that haunt this region.

Two scores of members, chiefly

from Norfolk, constitute the club; the initiation fee is $1,000. One feature of this organization, and a good one, is, that the keeper and the guides are paid fixed wages, and are strictly forbidden to receive any fees at all. The guides receive sixty dollars a month each and are found. Their work is of the hardest kind, for they are frequently wet and halffrozen throughout the hunting day. The Ragged Island is the only club that two Presidents have visited; both General Harrison and President Cleveland are honorary members, and each has had good sport there.

The oldest sporting syndicate on the Sound is the Currituck Club. It was formed in the early fifties, when the only mode of communication was to travel down the beach from Norfolk, or by a country road through the great Dismal Swamp. This club is composed of twentyfive wealthy New Yorkers, who have paid $5,000 each for their memberships, and several

The fine preserves of the Currituck Club consist of three thousand acres, mostly of marsh land; and the shooting is confined chiefly to the mallard and black duck. The clubhouse is as large as a country-town hotel; its smoking, lounging and drawingrooms are furnished handsomely, and the building is warmed throughout by furnaces; while for cheerfulness, there are wood fires.

Live decoys are required for shooting wildfowl in the marshes, for after

being repeatedly fired at, the ducks become suspicious, and the way black duck can dart upward, straight and swift as a rocket, when the wooden decoys are sighted, is almost incredible. As for the mallard, they soon learn to circle around the decoys and discover the deception. The keeper's flock of live decoys is the finest on the Sound. He feeds them personally, and they follow him about and come to his call as faithfully as his dog. There is a space of about half an acre enclosed with wire netting, built half in and half out of the water, with sheds for protection. A year ago there were two swan, eleven wild geese, and between fifty and sixty ducks; most of them were originally wild, and were caught when crippled. The record book shows some good bags of duck made at this club. The best for a single day was one hundred and ninety-three, mostly mallard, black duck and shovelers. There have been as many as one hundred killed to a single gun, but the average

of them come to Currituck each year in their private cars. The keeper of the club, Captain Tom Poyner, is known all along the coast, and if the Theosophists are right, then Jack Falstaff, "honest Jack,' has come back re-incarnated in the person of Captain Tom. With the same leering, comical, twinkling eyes; the bulbous, bibulous nose; the bare, round head garnished with side locks; the same jocund voice-Captain Tom is the happy, careless, improvident, sensual Jack all over again.